Javert's eyes glance down at the other man's hand, the way he wipes it onto his trousers like a man with no manners. He hesitates for a very long moment to take it, always so thrown by other's familiarity with him, the way that they insist on being addressed by one's given name.

"Javert," he says — the only name he cares to be addressed by. He takes Bob's hand but doesn't shake it, his own covered in leather gloves made out hides from the town's hunters. Holding his hand gently but with a firm sort of confidence, pulling away only a moment later.

"Are you looking to bloody yourself further? Is that why you ask?"